


Party Like It's 1999

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Curses, First Kiss, Humor, M/M, lyrics, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gets hit with a witch's curse and can only speak in "Brit" poetry. Set vaguely somewhere in Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Like It's 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Dean/Castiel Secret Angels IV Fic Exchange, for hobbleit.

“Hey, you shouldn’t…” Dean’s words trail off when Castiel ignores him and picks up the hex bag anyway, the small demonic accessory looking almost innocuous in the palm of Castiel’s hand. Dean sighs. “Yeah, great idea, Cas.”

Castiel shoots Dean an unimpressed look, and the hex bag bursts into flames.

“Neat trick,” Dean says, turning away to give Sam a hand. “You good?” Sam’s swaying a little when he stands up, but he manages to nod a yes.

The hex bag in Castiel’s palm sizzles softly until there’s one last burst of blue flame and all that’s left is ash, which Castiel tips ignominiously on to the floor. “Why are you here?” he asks.

“Witch,” Dean says in lieu of going _duh_ , because he’s not in the mood to explain the meaning of that human expression right now. “Not that we don’t appreciate your dropping by, but we had this one covered. How’d you find us?”

“Bobby,” Castiel says, irritation clear in voice and face as he steps in close to glare Dean right in the eye – though this time Dean gets the feeling that it’s less about Cas not knowing to respect one’s personal’s space and more about how he simply _doesn’t care_. “You should be focusing your efforts on tracking down the remaining Horsemen. Why are you wasting your time on cases like these?”

“Hey, we saved a couple of lives back there,” Dean snaps, refusing to waver under the onslaught of Cas’ angry stare _._ “That’s not a waste – that’s _never_ a waste.”

“It is if the world ends tomorrow,” Castiel says, voice dangerously soft, “And then _everyone_ is dead and your hand-to-hand rescues will mean nothing. Are Bobby and I the only ones exerting any true effort in stopping the Apocalypse?”

“Now that’s not fair,” Dean nearly snarls, teeth on edge. “We’re doing the best we can with what we have and you know it, where do you get off—”

“Guys,” Sam says.

Castiel’s eyes flick to Sam in surprise, almost as though he’d forgotten he’s there. Castiel relaxes slightly, though that’s not saying much since he still looks like he’s a heartbeat away from throwing a fist in Dean’s face.

And Dean’s in the mood to throw one right back, no matter that he knows exactly how bad an idea that is.

“I’ll be in touch,” Castiel says.

“Don’t be a…” Dean blinks at the Cas-shaped empty space in front of him. “…stranger.”

* * *

  
The end is nigh and Dean needs some Advil.

Sam’s quiet the whole journey back to the motel, the slump of his shoulders evidence that he’s tired in ways that go beyond having been repeatedly tossed into walls by a barely-pubescent witch with delusions of grandeur.

Dean would comment, but he can’t, because he likes the ache in his body right now – it’s the exhaustion of having done something good, who the fuck cares that it’s tiny on the grand scale of things. They’re hunters, and this salt of the Earth stuff is exactly what they do; not the fate of mankind shtick that no one deserves to have hoisted on them. Dean still hasn’t figured out a way to deal with that, but he _can_ deal with this, so he’s happy to.

“Come on,” Dean says once they’re back in their room. Sam sits obediently on the edge of the bed, mutely tolerating Dean's checking him for signs of a concussion. “We did good back there, Sam, okay? Don’t sweat it.”

Sam sighs. “But he’s right—”

“Oh, no,” Dean says, backing away from Sam. “The day you start saddling up with Cas I’m throwing the towel in. I don’t need both of you on my goddamn case at the same time.”

“But it’s _not_ your case, Dean,” Sam points out. “It’s ours. It’s everyone’s.”

“You know what, whatever,” Dean says, grabbing a towel and heading for the shower. “All I know is that two families get to sleep well tonight because _we_ made the effort to come out here and stop that witch before she got it into her head to curse the whole town. If you think that that was a waste of time, then I got nothing to say to you.”

“Dean…” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off by slamming the bathroom door. It’s easier to be angry right now. It’s just easier to dig his heels in and grit it out, snarling curses at everything and everyone, because Dean sure as hell didn’t sign up for this shit.

As far as Dean’s concerned, the only roles Sam and him are meant to play are the two guys who _don’t_ say yes.

But Sam’s wavering lately, what with there being no plausible endgame in sight. In the past their roadmaps have been finite: find dad, don’t die, kill the YED, don’t start the Apocalypse (one would think that last one would be the easiest, but _no_ – fucking angels), so this is something else. This is bigger than anything they’ve ever been trained for, so Dean refuses to feel guilty (more guilty) that he doesn’t measure up.

Cas’ mere presence reminds Dean of that. The guy put all his eggs in one basket – because it was the _right_ thing to do, no one will convince Dean otherwise – but now every time he pops by, Dean can see just a little bit more of his unfathomable faith being chipped away. Cas doesn’t need to say anything about it; Dean just knows.

This is why when Cas calls the next day as they’re heading back to Bobby’s, Dean’s reluctant to pick up. Oh, sure, there’s probably something important that needs telling, but lately more often than not their conversations end up arguments, which Dean doesn’t much care for.

He picks up anyway, ignoring Sam’s waving of a hands-free kit in his face. “’Sup, Cas.”

There’s a pause, which is new. Castiel never pauses. He never wastes time with pleasantries either, always going straight for the jugular. “ _How_ …”

“Cas, that you?” Dean asks.

“ _How was I supposed to know_ ,” Castiel says, sounding grave yet hesitant, “ _That something wasn’t right, here?_ ”

“What’s not right?” Dean asks. “What’re you talking about?”

“ _I cannot hold it_ ,” Castiel replies. “ _I cannot control it._ ”

“Can’t control what?”

There’s an echo of a frustrated sound, as though Castiel has pulled the phone away from his ear to growl at it menacingly. His voice is laced with anxiety when he next says: “ _If only you were here tonight, I know that we could make it right._ ”

“You know what? I’m handing you over to Sam.” Dean passes the phone over, figuring that Sam has a better chance of deciphering Cas-speak.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says into the phone. “What, I… What? You’re ready for what? Cas, I don’t understand, why don’t you…” He makes a bewildered sound. “Okay… Hey, how about this. We’re going to stop for the night soon, how about I text you the address and you come see us then? I’m going to assume that’s a yes.”

After Sam hangs up, Dean says, “I don’t think I want to know.”

“He sounds stressed,” Sam says worriedly.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well, he can join the club.”

* * *

  
Castiel materializes in their motel room the moment Sam hits SEND on his cell. He’s not bleeding or dirty, and appears to be all in one piece, so Dean has no idea why on earth he looks so wild-eyed, blurting out an abrupt, “I’m feeling it bad and I can’t explain,” by way of greeting.

Not that Dean knows where Cas has been picking up his slang, but maybe his search for God has been taking him to malls? It’d explain some things.

“How about you take it from the top,” Sam suggests, far kinder than Dean would’ve been.

“From the tip of my toes,” Castiel says, staring harder as though willing _them_ to understand when he’s the one talking in near-nonsensical circles, “Running through my veins.”

“What the hell?” Dean snorts. “No offense, Cas, but you sound weirder than usual, and that’s saying a lot.”

Castiel raises his eyes to the ceiling before bringing them back down; Dean belatedly realizes that this is the closest Cas has ever come to an eye-roll. Castiel takes a deep breath and says slowly, enunciating every syllable deliberately, “I guess when you have one too many, makes it hard, it could be easy.”

There’s a moment of silence while Sam’s eyebrows do a dance of bewilderment. “Okay, how about we take this one step at a time,” he says hesitantly, as though the only option here is that Castiel magically lost the ability to communicate in proper English. “What happened?”

“I took a sip from the Devil’s cup.” Castiel points to Sam’s laptop, which has been left open on the table. “Slowly, it’s taking over me.”

“Devil’s cup?” Sam frowns. “You mean, like something demonic?”

Castiel marches over to the laptop, and they follow. The screen is still set to Sam’s browser, and when Castiel clicks over to a recently used tab, Dean and Sam find themselves looking at the page Sam had pulled up when they’d been researching their most recent case. Castiel jabs a finger at _WitchCraft_ heading the top of the page. “You’re toxic, I’m slipping under.” With his other hand, Castiel taps his throat.

“Toxic? Toxic! Oh, it’s a curse!” Sam exclaims. He drops into his chair and pulls his laptop close. “A curse that’s affecting his speech.”

“I told him not to touch the hex bag,” Dean says quickly, barely stopping himself from wagging a finger in Cas’ face. “I told you not to touch the hex bag!”

Castiel gives Dean a sideways look. “Boy, don’t try to front, ah ah,” he says, frustration oozing from every syllable, “I know just what you are, ah ah.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Sam says, squinting up at Cas. “That sounds... familiar.”

Castiel’s eyes widen with relief and tentative hope, and he brushes past Dean to grab Sam’s shoulder. “’Cause to lose all my senses,” he says slowly, “It’s just so typically me.”

Sam’s mouth drops open. “Oh.”

“Wait, wait,” Dean says. The words are pinging the edges of his memory. There’s something familiar about their arrangement, like a tv jingle, and he can almost hear the echo of a tune that lingers around the syllables. “Say something, Cas.”

Castiel turns to Dean. “You got me in a crazy position, if you’re on a mission.”

Dean knows this. He _knows_ this, it’s on the tip of his tongue—

Sam blurts out, “It’s Britney.”

Castiel looks at Sam sharply, the muscle above one eye twitching. When Sam doesn’t add anything else, Castiel growls out through gritted teeth, “…bitch.”

* * *

  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says, because there are some things in the world worth repeating two dozen times. “Cas is cursed to speak in _Britney Spears lyrics_?”

By now Sam’s apparently decided that it isn’t worth looking up from his laptop. “I don’t know how else you want me to say it.”

“Yeah, well, it’d have to be you who says it, right, because it’s not like _Cas_ can.” Dean turns to Castiel. “Ain’t that right, Cas?”

Castiel is sitting in the chair next to Sam’s so to read whatever he’s pulled up on the laptop. Unlike Sam, Cas meets Dean’s gaze easily enough, as though he’s determined to be above the whole thing. “Love me, hate me, say what you want about me.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Cas,” Dean says, stifling another snicker. One of Cas’ judgmental eyebrows go up, but the look that accompanies it is one of surprise, eyes dropping to Dean’s grinning mouth.

“Dean…” Sam sighs, proving that at least one of them has the irritated side covered. “You’re not helping.”

“Sure I am,” Dean says brightly. “Maybe what Cas says has a clue to break the curse.”

Castiel shakes his head. He points at something on Sam’s screen and slashes the air with two fingers.

“I have no idea what that means,” Sam says apologetically. “Can you type out what you’re trying to say, or write it?”

Another headshake. Castiel takes out his cell and puts it on the table. He demonstrates by deliberately lowering his fingers to the keys, only for the movement to deviate at the last second, forcing him to press another key from the one he’d intended, proving that the curse affects more than just spoken word. “Sometimes I run, sometimes I hide,” Castiel says with a sigh.

“Fuck me, a pre-teen’s bad poetry coming out of an angel’s mouth.” Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “Whatever will they think of next?”

“We know that curse forces him to speak complete phrases, at least,” Sam says, writing something down on his notepad. “And the lyrics seem to correspond to whatever it is that he _meant_ to say.”

Castiel makes a dubious face, but nods.

“Okay, curses, we know,” Dean says, choosing not to point out that he’ll take a curse over stopping the clash of Heaven and Hell on Earth, because he’s pretty sure Cas is just as tired of the subject. “You take the source of the witch’s power out of the equation, you undo the curse.”

“But we already stopped the witch,” Sam reminds him. “Destroyed her book, destroyed her means of doing summoning magic.”

Castiel sits up suddenly. “I’m looking at a picture in my hand, trying my best to understand.” That doesn’t make much sense in itself, but the thoughtful cant of Cas’ head makes it clear that he’s just been hit with an idea. Cas takes back his cell and presses a few buttons before showing the screen to Sam.

“Bobby? You want us to go to Bobby’s?” Sam asks, and Cas nods. “We can do that. We were going to go there anyway, check in on the latest in his search for signs of Pestilence.”

Castiel nods and stands up, purposeful in his posture once again. He starts to raise his hands, ostensibly to instantly BAMF them to Bobby’s, but before Dean can say _no_ , Cas pauses, expression oddly blank, and lowers his hands.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “Besides the fact that you’re talking like a pop princess, of course.”

“You drive,” Castiel says, glancing out the window to where the Impala is parked, “Me crazy. I just can’t sleep.”

“Okay…” Dean says slowly. “The old-fashioned way it is. You want to meet us there, or you going to ride in the back?”

Castiel tilts his head towards the car. “I’m so excited, I’m in too deep.”

Dean can’t help it; the combo of Cas’ serious face and the ridiculous things coming out of his mouth is just _too much_. He throws an arm around Cas’ shoulders and laughs. “That’s what _she_ said.”

* * *

The drive to Bobby’s is a strange thing. Cas is quietly content (or as content as he ever seems to be) to ride in the back, amiably parroting lyrics at Dean every time he’s prompted. Sam turns out to be the one who keeps protesting with loud “ _Dean!_ ”s  in every annoyed tone known to man, as though the angel isn’t perfectly capable of refusing to answer if he wanted to.

“Well, I’m just trying to find out why,” Castiel says to Dean’s question of what he gets up to whenever he’s flying off on his own somewhere, “’Cause dancing’s what I love.”

That makes Dean howl, slamming a hand against the steering wheel. “Oh, shit, Cas, yeah, that’s a good one!”

“And there’s no one there,” Castiel says with a solemn nod that Dean catches in the rearview mirror, “I’m the only one dancing up in this place.”

“Ugh,” Sam says. When Dean glances over, Sam’s putting his Ipod earphones in. “Not listening to this anymore,” he says, dramatically pressing the play button.

“Spoilsport,” Dean mutters.

Curses aren’t fun, but this one’s a harmless irritant, and a stupid one at that. Sam may be offended on Cas’ behalf, but a quick glance in the mirror tells Dean that Cas doesn’t mind. Dean knows very well what Cas looks like when he’s angry, and this isn’t it. Hell, they’ve spat and snarled at each other at the worst of times, but right now Cas is perfectly calm, hands folded in his lap and face turned to the window.

“You don’t mind, do you, Cas?” Dean asks anyway.

Cas’ voice is soft, almost distracted, when he answers, “You think that I can’t take it, but you’re wrong. I’m stronger than yesterday.”

That nudges another memory; maybe Dean’d heard that particular number during one of his many stopovers in bars that had little to no taste. “Ain’t nothing but my way?”

“My loneliness ain’t killing me no more,” Castiel says agreeably. “I’m stronger than I could ever be. Baby.”

Dean cracks up again. When his eyes flick up the mirror again, Cas is smiling as well.

* * *

“Why are you still at it?” Sam asks as they enter Bobby’s house. “Aren’t you tired of bugging Cas?”

“No, not really,” Dean replies with an unrepentant shrug. He feels looser, somehow, like some unseen knots in his body have unwound. The situation with the curse may be fucked up but he can’t deny that having Cas spit bubblegum pop is not too bad for a change of pace. He glances over his shoulder at Cas. “You out of lyrics yet?”

Cas looks thoughtful. “All my people wanting more, let me see you dance.”

“I think that’s a no,” Dean says.

Bobby, to Sam’s satisfaction and Dean’s disappointment, doesn’t so much as twitch when Castiel says to him, “Baby, I’m so into you. You got that something, what can I do.”

“Free reign,” Bobby says gruffly, waving his hands at his books. “Whatever you need to find, go find it.”

“You’re no fun,” Dean says, making himself comfortable in a chair while Castiel picks through tomes and Sam follows at his shoulder, peering closely at his choices. “What kind of witch makes a curse like that? What’s the point?”

“Besides irritating the person who’s been cursed?” Sam suggests. “And, by proxy, whoever’s around them?”

“Why are you even cursed in the first place?” Dean wonders aloud. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be immune to stuff like that?”

Cas stiffens, surprised by the question. “A—” he starts to say. He stops the next few words from coming out by slamming his lips together, only for the curse to compel him to blurt out, “—should wear a warning. It’s dangerous, I’m falling.”

“Wait, what?” Dean starts. “You’re _falling_ , as in becoming human?”

Castiel picks a book out from a pile and starts flipping through it.

“You’re looking for lists of demons?” Sam asks quietly. Cas nods, grateful to have that to focus on.

Dean knows what happens when Cas turns human. He’s seen it – or at least, a possible version of it – and that’s one of the things that made Dean flip the trajectory they’ve been on. Things have changed already by virtue of Sam’s coming back and them sticking together, but Cas falling anyway was never part of the plan.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” Dean says, retreating to the kitchen.

* * *

Sam finds Dean hours later, long after the sun’s long gone down and there’s still nothing interesting to watch on tv.

“We think we’ve figured out how the curse works,” Sam says, dropping into the space next to Dean on the couch. “We took the witch out of the equation, but if there was another one summoning the same demon at the same time, all the curses they made stay active until all the witches or the demon themselves are dealt with. We’ll probably need to go back and find that other witch.”

“Sounds good,” Dean mutters distractedly. “Something to work on.”

Sam presses two bottles of beer into Dean’s hands, their glassy surface damp with condensation. “Look, it’s tough where we are right now. I’m tired, you’re tired, Bobby’s tired… Just because he’s an angel doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to be tired as well.”

“He’s an angel for _now_ , you mean,” Dean says. “Where is he?”

Sam tilts his head. “Outside.”

Castiel turns out to be standing some ways out in the middle of Bobby’s junkyard, head tilted up to the sky. Dean wonders what Cas sees when he looks at the stars, but even if Cas had control of his speech Dean wouldn't want to know the answer. He hands the beer over without a word, and Castiel accepts, pressing to the bottle to his mouth for a quick sip.

“You figured it out, huh?” Dean asks. “That’s good.”

Castiel nods, gaze still unfocused. His mouth opens and closes a few times, as though unsure whether to say something.

“We’ll get that curse off in no time,” Dean says. “Then you can get back to the… important stuff.”

There’s a soft huffing noise that Dean only belated realizes came from Castiel’s nose. “And the world keeps spinning and she keeps on winning,” he says wryly, “But tell me, what happens when it stops?”

The words are near nonsensical, as they’ve been pretty much the whole day, but it’s the _way_ Cas is saying it, soft and almost resigned, that makes Dean scowl. “Stops?” He grabs at Cas’ shoulder. “You’re giving up?”

It takes a while for Cas to meet Dean’s gaze, but when he does, the crows’ feet around his eyes deepen with his wan smile. Cas’ laugh is a short, wordless breath, the sound far too close to the future Cas Dean had seen once, so there’s nothing funny here at all. “My loneliness is killing me and I…”

“You’re not alone, Cas,” Dean says, which he normally wouldn’t, but Castiel is drifting dangerously, something in him close to breaking. “Just because the other angels ditched you doesn’t mean that what you’re doing isn’t right.”

“I still believe,” Castiel agrees, but he sighs, exhausted. “When I’m not with you I lose my mind.”

“Hey, now,” Dean says uncomfortably. He deflects, choosing to focus instead on the curse’s choice of words, which slot into a familiar arrangement in his head. “Give you a sign? Hit you, baby—”

Castiel’s hand lands over Dean’s mouth, silencing him.

The skin of Cas’ hand is rough, but the touch is gentle. This is nothing like the firm arm squeezes or urgent shoulder grabs that are norm for them – this is a the soft cupping of Dean’s mouth, Cas’ hand clear with its message but at the same time unintrusive, the palm barely brushing Dean’s lips.

Cas is saying: _no. This is not a joke._

The air feels colder on Dean’s lips when Cas finally pulls his hand away.

“It’s hurting you,” Dean says. Cas is difficult enough to understand when he’s in actual control of his own vocabulary, but Dean’s finding cues in the eyes. Cas has no experience masking emotion, so it’s all there to read, if Dean only looks. “Not in the obvious way, but it’s reminding you that you’re less angel than you used to be.”

Castiel shrugs. “I’m wishing that heroes, they truly exist.”

“You let me make fun of you,” Dean says, confused. He remembers all too well how they’d been at each other’s throats just the day earlier, and even before that. “Why’d you do that?”

“My heart is jumping, it’s easy to see,” Castiel says quietly. He presses two fingers to either side of his mouth, pushing inward and smiling. With the same hand, he gestures at Dean. “I’m so happy when you’re dancing there.”

“Me?” Realization washes over Dean. “You wanted me to laugh?”

Castiel nods. He lifts a hand, curling it into a fist that he presses against his chin, and then against Dean’s.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah. We’ve been at each other’s throats. But it’s understandable, you know? Look at the situation we’re in, it’s the end of the fucking world, and I don’t see a way out of it, Cas? What else do you expect to do when there’s nothing but death and destruction in our future? What else is there _to_ do?”

Castiel cocks his head, considering the rhetorical question with gravity. He nods, more to himself than to Dean, and then leans in.

Dean freezes but he doesn’t move away, because: no way. There’s no _way_ , because Cas doesn’t do that sort of thing, he’s probably fucking with Dean, trying to get him to blink.

Cas stops, face still far too close to Dean’s.

Then Dean realizes with a jolt that Cas wouldn’t care if Dean blinks or not. Cas is, in fact, waiting for him to say no. When he doesn’t, Cas’ hand carefully curls around the back of Dean’s neck, and he presses his lips to Dean’s firmly, a clear personal answer of _this is what’s worth doing when it’s the end of the world._

Two, three seconds later Castiel pulls away, his eyes shut as though committing the taste to memory. When he opens his eyes, there’s stillness and satisfaction there. He nods firmly, almost _thank you, that’s all_.

“You don’t—” Dean grabs Cas’ wrist, trying to pull him back in. “You don’t just a kiss a guy and walk away.”

Cas frowns, like _why not_.

“You can’t…” Dean trails off, staring at Cas’ patient, curious face. It’s a kick in the stomach to realize that he honestly doesn’t expect anything in return. All Cas wants – all Cas has ever wanted, really – is for Dean to be the best that he can be for Sam and the rest of the world. Dean half-laughs, half-sighs, “Why can’t you want something easy?”

He leans in, watching Cas’ eyes go wide with surprise that shouldn’t be there, as if Dean responding had never occurred to him as a possibility. Well, it’d never occurred to Dean as well, but that was before Cas went and kissed him, pulling the last veil away to reveal that, _yes,_ this is where they’ve always been heading.

“There’s nothing you can do or say,” Cas says, just before Dean kisses him properly.

There’s a moment where Cas isn’t sure what to do, but then he’s following Dean’s lead, parting his lips and stroking Dean’s tongue with his own. Dean holds on to Cas’ arms, surprised when Cas realizes what he can do and pushes _back_ , surging up to take from Dean’s mouth as he is welcome.

This kiss is definitely one for the road, promise and heat in the meet of their lips.

Cas is the one who pulls away, though he doesn’t go far, brushing his nose against Dean’s chin and cheek. “Can’t you see I’m a fool in so many ways.”

Dean chuckles ruefully, stroking a thumb against Cas’ stubbly chin. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss hearing you, the _real_ you. All the stupid things you say, how you nag at me for talking over you, even the way you say my freaking name every five minutes.”

Castiel’s body vibrates with wordless laughter. When he leans back to look at Dean, his smile is cautious but hopeful, and he squeezes Dean’s elbow reassuringly.

“You do know you’re not alone, right,” Dean says firmly. “You have us. You have me.”

The corners of Cas’ mouth twitch. “I want to believe in everything that you say, because it sounds so good.”

“ _Try_ ,” Dean says. “I’m not perfect, but you already know that, don’t you, Cas? I need you to call me out on my bullshit… To remind me what’s important. That’s what we have to do for each other. Every time one of us is close to forgetting, the others remind him. Me, you, Sam, Bobby, that’s what we have to do. Okay?”

Cas gives his answer by way of kissing Dean again.

* * *

“Superstar, where you from, how’s it going?” Castiel asks, marching across Bobby’s study to where Sam and Bobby are drawing something on a piece of paper. Dean trails in after, dropping into a chair and finishing off the last of his beer.

Sam exchanges a quick, confused glance with Bobby, who looks just as perplexed. “Uh….”

“He’s asking if there’s been any progress,” Dean says. “What is it you’re looking for? I thought you guys already figured out what needed to be done.”

“Castiel pointed out a magic-detection ritual,” Bobby says, sounding vaguely irritated at the idea that Cas may have found something in his books that he hadn’t noticed. “It was spread over a couple of different books but we pieced it together into something workable. You should be able to scry the witch’s location using Cas’ blood, since he’s the one who’s cursed.”

“We can get down like there’s no one around,” Castiel says approvingly as he studies the spell Bobby’s put together.

Sam makes a face. “Uh…”

“Cas wants to get on with it immediately,” Dean says. “What, really, Cas? It seems like we just got here.”

Castiel raises two fingers, pressing them against the palm of his other hand. “When I crack that whip everyone gon’ trip?”

“Nope, still not riding Angel Airways,” Dean says as he stands up. “But if we head out now, we can get a-witch hunting by dinnertime tomorrow.” He glances back at Sam and Bobby, who are still sitting at the desk and staring. “What? Come on, time’s wasting!”

“You do realize what you’re doing, don’t you?” Sam asks once they’re back in the Impala and hitting the road. “Translating Cas like that?”

“Geez, it’s not rocket science,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. He glances up at the rearview mirror. Cas is looking out the window, a faint smile on his lips. “Ain’t that right, Cas?”

“Daddy-O, you got the swagger of a champion,” Cas replies matter-of-factly.

“Exactly,” Dean says. When Sam still doesn’t stop boggling, Dean smacks the back of his head.

* * *

Considering how the world’s busy ending in a blaze of Heaven-sent and Hell-lifted crossfire, it’s one concession from Lady Luck that their hunting down the second witch takes two days and zero casualties.

The closest to danger that they ever get is when the still-active witch gets wind of their return and hexes the Impala, but Cas manages to warn them with a no-nonsense, “Danger, danger, danger, danger” and then Dean’s taking it _personally_ , chasing after the witch and eventually burning her summoning materials with relish.

When the last demon artifact is tossed into the bonfire Sam’s set up, Castiel starts coughing – softly, at first, but it quickly turns into deep, hacking coughs that sound like he’s trying to upchuck his lungs.

“After this,” Sam says, “It’s back to dealing with the Apocalypse. Or… not dealing with it?”

“Whether we can deal with it or not isn’t the question,” Dean says. “Only that we’re together when we do it.”

Castiel’s last cough turns into a sharp inhalation, as if something in his chest’s snapped loose. He looks up, wide eyes finding Dean immediately.

“Dean,” he says, desperate and relieved in the same breath.

Dean grins. “Hey, Cas.”


End file.
